


As You Sit There With Your Coffee, Looking Up

by honestys_easy



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: Angry Sex, Coffee, M/M, Starbucks, Texting, Texts From Last Night Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy's flirtations and caffeine addiction leave Neal feeling cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Sit There With Your Coffee, Looking Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loves_anodyne (machka)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machka/gifts).



> Based off my tumblr called [Anthemic Texts From Last Night](http://anthemictfln.tumblr.com/), using the popular and hilarious entries from [Texts From Last Night](http://www.textsfromlastnight.com) and pairing them up with photos of The Anthemic, with hysterical results. One of which was a photo of [Andy with a Starbucks cup](http://anthemictfln.tumblr.com/post/7283881194/509-god-that-barista-is-texting-me-bout-his#notes) set to [this TFLN](http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-29130.html).

Monday

 

It starts when Neal’s waiting in a special kind of purgatory. He despises the pseudo-intellectual atmosphere of the Starbucks, the guys in turtlenecks in fucking Los Angeles in summer and a goddamn _Sufjan Stevens_ song piping through the shop’s speakers. But the chair he’s in is so comfortable it might as well be sinful, so he’s understandably conflicted. Besides, Andy had promised that morning would be his treat, since he was the one going through severe caffeine withdrawal and needed a fix right-the-fuck-now. The coffee’s decent here, Neal thinks, and it’s more than decent when it doesn’t cost him anything.

The armchair almost makes Neal overlook the fact that Andy’s taking his sweet-ass time at the counter--he knows well enough the place can get backed up with specialty orders, but this is getting ridiculous. A quick glance in the direction of the cash registers and he spies Andy holding a paper mug in each hand but not moving; Neal scowls, there ain’t nothing worse than lukewarm black coffee. He’s about to shout across the coffeehouse for Skib to get his cherry ass back to the table, make all those turtlenecks turn their heads and blush, but he notices Andy’s chatting with the barista, who is self-consciously tugging at his green apron while tittering out a nervous laugh.

Everything about that barista screams safe and average, from his height and his build to his mousy brown hair and pale, inkless skin. His thick-rimmed glasses remind Neal of Andrew, if Andrew had ever been employed. He fleetingly considers referring to him as Bizarro Drew when Andy whips out a pen, scribbles something down on a napkin, and hands it to him. When he returns to the table Neal starts to think the status of Andy’s ass is no longer a secret in this Starbucks.

“What?” Andy plays the innocent, and with anyone else those doe eyes would pass, but Neal’s known him too long to ever be fooled by his batting eyelashes. He’s a fucking demon. “We were just talking.”

Neal grumbles, his eyes narrowed, his mood soured. He’d be the first to admit his boyfriend’s attractive--hell, it’s one of the reasons he’s his boyfriend in the first place--but he’d rather no one _else_ admit it after him. “The way he was lookin’ at you?” he snorts, and it only makes Andy smile wider behind his coffee cup. “He wants something from your mouth, and it ain’t _talk_.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Andy toys. Neal’s got no reason to be jealous, he knows this in the back of his mind: Andy can talk to other men, even the obviously smitten barista, but he’ll be in Neal’s bed at the end of the day, and every day.

Still doesn’t make the growl erode from Neal’s throat or the snarl recede from his pierced lips. It gets worse when Andy’s iPhone chirps a text at him, and, after inspecting it, Andy smiles. He turns around towards the counter and waves at his new barista buddy; when he comes back around to the table, his boyfriend’s balking at him with a mix of shock and wounded pride.

“You _gave_ him your _number???_ ”

Andy lets out a testy hiss from between his teeth; Neal is overreacting but he’d never call him on it, because that would mean Neal would have to admit in public that he actually has feelings. “Oh, it’s harmless,” he says. When Neal’s initial anger turns into a sullen pout, Andy picks up Neal’s mug and waves it underneath Neal’s nose, forcing him to take in the aroma. Neal’s stubborn as a mule in heat, but he still has to breathe. “Don’t complain, the coffee was free.”

“Yeah, because you paid for it,” Neal snaps back, but Andy shakes his head.

“Nope. Comp’ed.” He makes another wave at the barista and holds up his coffee in gratitude. “You can thank Eddie for that.”

Neal snorts at the name--at the fact Andy even knows this guy’s name, that some overrated coffee jerk is texting _his_ boyfriend and giving him free drinks. “Liked it better when I just called him Bizarro Drew,” he mutters, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

He receives an arched eyebrow in response. “Comparing him to Andrew?” Andy says, a sudden bitter taste in his mouth that wasn’t his cappuccino. “Now you’ve solidly ensured I’ll never want to sleep with him.”

***

Neal thinks the flirtation is over once the mugs are drained, the Starbucks--which is now playing Jack Johnson songs, God help him--is left behind, and they head to the studio for the day. But the chipper beep from Andy’s iPhone follows them in Neal’s truck, and the calculating smile on his passenger’s face turns an unpleasant screw in Neal’s gut.

“He’s really happy I came in this morning,” Andy informs him, his eyes on the iPhone screen and not on Neal’s knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. “And he hopes I’ll stop by again.” He turns wide, greedy eyes on the driver, whose jaw is clenched shut in resentment. “Maybe he’ll give me _more_ free coffee tomorrow!”

A sudden, sharp turn has Andy grabbing for the oh-shit handle above the passenger door. Neal makes a hard right even though the right didn’t have to be hard, but because he wants the excited smirk off Andy’s face and his attention off the author of those text messages. “Didja ever think to tell him you were taken?” His words are more accusing than he’d like them to be, because he knows in his heart the flirting’s as harmless as Andy told him it was. But it doesn’t mean he has to sit here and watch him do it, either. “As in, you have a boyfriend? Whom you fuck? Who doesn’t even need to bribe you with free coffee?”

He bites his tongue just short of adding, a boyfriend who loves Andy whether or not there’s caffeine involved; Neal can be a sappy fuck when the time is right, but eleven in the morning flying down the freeway is not one of those times.

Andy shrugs when the truck’s driving straight again, and Neal underestimates the lengths Andy will go for free coffee. “I told him you were my cousin,” he says simply; Neal’s glad he didn’t remind Andy he loves him, because he’s currently reconsidering his stance on the matter. “And that you didn’t speak English.”

***

That incessant little notification beep stays with them through their commute, and into the studio, and even once Andy flips the phone on silent for the session; when he comes back to check his e-mail the texts are waiting for him, like happy digital puppies welcoming their owner home. When dinnertime hits and the plastic tubs of takeout are distributed throughout the breakroom, it sounds again, the barista ever persistent. It gets to the point where David, his feast of pad thai so rudely interrupted, questions if Andy mistakenly gave his phone number away to a fanboy.

“You better check yourself before you wreck yourself,” Monty adds through a mouthful of scallion pancake, pointing to Andy’s phone; his accent sends David into a fit of giggles and the topic is seamlessly changed.

But throughout the day, Neal observes Andy and that promiscuous iPhone, his expressive eyes narrowing with concern over each text, mouth quirked to the side as he punches in succinct responses. Each time Andy texts back Neal’s heart sinks a tiny amount in his chest, another opportunity for Andy to call the barista and ream him for the interruptions wasted. Andy’s eyes are wide with anticipation, his mouth nearly salivating at the thought of free venti dark roasts in his future, and Neal won’t take that away from him just because he’s got an irrational feeling in his gut. He does, however, make the executive decision to take the long way home from the studio, bypassing the Starbucks and speeding by too quickly for Andy to protest.

***

Tuesday

 

David, reliant to the point of co-dependence, needs his music director at the studio first thing in the morning, and though Neal is making him pay for the wake-up call in beer that weekend, he complies. When Andy groans and swats at Neal’s face and almost takes out a table lamp at the mention of waking early, they inevitably take separate cars to work. Neal discovers this is a bad idea when Andy walks into the studio, tortoise-rimmed sunglasses hiding large, wired eyes, with his phone in one hand and the largest iced caramel macchiato anyone’s ever seen in the other.

“Barista guy’s unsettling me,” he sighs, heaving his giant coffee onto the breakroom table, eyes barely visible behind his shades. Neal raises an eyebrow and resists the urge to spit out a well-deserved “I told you so” at his boyfriend.

Instead he takes the high road as he steals a sip of the macchiato. Fuck, it is tasty. “Thought his name was _Eddie_ ,” he says, barely able to get out the word.

Andy rests his head on an elbow, pouting. “He’s been demoted to ‘barista guy.’” Pouting, he takes off his sunglasses, and Neal’s surprised to see bags underneath those eyes. Looks like his boyfriend didn’t get much of a rest after he left for work that morning. “He keeps texting me about his life, like I care. Started right after you left, didn’t get back to sleep at all.”

Unsympathetically Neal snorts a bitter laugh. “That’s what you get. Ain’t nice to fuck with someone’s emotions.” He kept his mouth shut over whose emotions he specifically referred to; either way, Andy did not receive the message.

“He texted me--’Good morning, winkyface’--” Andy puts his finger in the air and draws an invisible semicolon next to a closed parenthesis, dotting the emoticon with particular violence. “--And it hasn’t stopped since. Wants to ask me all these questions, what do I like to do, do I like sports, how’s my day been.” He gives Neal a quizzical look. “How’s my _day_ been? It’s ten in the goddamn morning, _my day_ starts at three.”

Neal couldn’t help but snicker. “You knew he wanted your cock,” he says, just as Kyle walks into the breakroom, and, upon hearing his two bandmates talk about each others’ privates, promptly leaves. “You flirted your way, now he’s doing it his way.” He slaps a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Time to let him down easy, heartbreaker.”

But instead of glumly agreeing--and admitting to Neal that he was completely right, and Andy was wrong, and he owed Neal an apology blowjob--Andy gives Neal a quizzical look, as if he just asked when he was planning to dip his hands in battery acid. “Let him down?” he repeats, and frowns. “Th’fuck would I do that for?”

Oh, Neal could think of quite a number of reasons; taken aback, he steps back from Andy, hands on his hips, eyes skeptical and wide, mouth open and ready to fucking give him what for. But before he can get one word from his lips Andy picks up the large cup and shakes it in Neal’s face, the ice cubes tinkling against the mug’s plastic walls. The sound alone seems to enliven Andy; Neal bets he would mix it into the studio sessions if Dave’d let him.

“He told me he’d be in _all week_ ,” Andy’s eyes light up with his grin, and it only makes Neal’s mouth turn down into a deeper grimace. As irritating as Andy’s barista boyfriend is for the both of them, it doesn’t appear he’s giving it up any time soon. “Pulling a double shift tomorrow--he’s avoiding his mother’s bridge club--” he rolls his eyes and holds up a hand to stem the sarcastic protest he knows will come from Neal. “I got it under control.”

He offers Neal the straw again, his eyes nearly as seductive as the macchiato. Forbidden fruit; stolen goods, Neal thinks, but still considers taking another sip. “He makes it just the way I like it,” Andy goads in a low, teasing tone, and Neal suddenly has the urge to puke up the taste he got in the first place.

They leave separately at the end of the day, Neal sticking around an extra half-hour to handle one of David’s daily musical-existential crises. When he gets back to the house Andy greets him with a kiss, deep and lingering, his long, agile fingers gripping securely against Neal’s hip. But on Andy’s lips Neal tastes the distinct trace of coffee, freshly brewed, and, his mood squarely soured, he goes to bed early and alone.

***

Wednesday

 

Andy complains of a restless sleep the next day; he blames it on his barista’s endless texts, some lengthy and deeply personal, others irritatingly short, consisting of a few words of Netspeak and coy emoticons. But the jittering of his hands and the wired look in his eyes tells Neal an entirely different story, reveals a whole other reason for Andy’s sleeplessness. They drive separately again, partly because Neal knows David’ll want to keep him late, but also to avoid the inevitable request of his boyfriend to wing around to the Starbucks in order to exploit his fake flirtation’s generosity. Neal knows, whether or not he’s the one driving, Andy would be making that trip like a junkie offering handsies to score the morning’s fix.

It’s unsettling to the band to watch Andy’s fingers nearly hum with caffeine and sugar on the piano keys, but more unsettling to Neal when Andy plays it off like it’s nothing, pretends not to notice his eyes are even more bugged-out than usual. He reassures Neal that he’s got everything under control--both his coffee intake and the continuous stream of texts to his phone. Neal doesn’t know which concern bothers him more: Monty thinks it’s the coffee, while Kyle takes his personal belief in consideration and says it’s barista boy. David wisely says nothing; after knowing Neal and Andy for so long, he knows it’s a bit of both.

Realizing his two best friends are no good to him--personally or professionally--in this state, David sends them home early, Andy under the condition he not go back to the Starbucks for another drink; Neal under the condition, David tells him as he pulls him aside, that he “fix this.”

Neither of them keep their promises.

***

He doesn’t know how the fuck Andy beats him home, because it’s obvious from the minute Neal steps into the house the motherfucker made it to the damn coffee shop in record time. The unmistakable smell of French Roast and hazelnut creamer invades his senses, and it spurs a spike of rage in Neal he never thought he’d have over the simple scent of coffee.

It isn’t just the coffee that frustrates him, though he does prefer his boyfriend when he’s not a caffeinated, jittery mess. It’s that somewhere in L.A., some pasty, bespectacled, clingy loser of a barista thinks that with his iPhone and an iced latte he’s got a chance in Hell of fucking Neal’s man.

He’s standing in the entryway when Andy walks by, his sneakers already kicked off by the couch, the remnants of a frothy frappuccino in one hand and his phone in the other. Focused on the cell phone’s screen, his fingers are swiping away, lips curved around the frappuccino’s plastic straw, sucking in between the ice cubes ever so fastidiously. Neal almost snorts steam at the sight, and before he knows it he’s crossing the room in quick strides, boots clanking against the hardwood.

Andy barely has time to look up before Neal’s upon him, startling him out of his text. He catches one brief look at determined ice blue eyes, a spark in them like Andy’s never seen before. Neal reaches, and with a grunt of force takes Andy by the shoulders, pushing him against the wall. He pins him there, shoulders up against the plaster, his hips pinned down by Neal’s, a leg wedging up between his two.

Andy’s too shocked to even cry out, but before he can even think to gasp his mouth is covered by Neal’s own, a powerful kiss that demanded to be in charge. Neal pries Andy’s lips open with a probing tongue; he doesn’t have to force it, could have coaxed himself in with a questioning nip, a flick of his tongue against Andy’s lips, but Neal’s head is filled with all action and emotion, leaving logical reasoning behind. He wants to take Andy, not just come along quietly like routine.

When his tongue snakes into Andy’s mouth he tastes the sharp, bitter coffee, a bit of the strawful still in Andy’s mouth, Neal catching him before he could fully swallow. Neal laps it up before Andy can respond, pressing his lips harder against him, until a dull thump indicates Andy’s head’s hit the wall behind him.

Just as suddenly as he started the kiss, Neal breaks it, wrenching his mouth away from Andy as Andy begins to respond with his own lips and tongue. It’s torture for Andy: he’s already breathing hard, just one touch from Neal flicking a switch in his mind, and he strains forward for more contact, but Neal holds him down fast. Andy’s always been pretty good at pushing buttons, prodding and toying to get his way, to get Neal begging for him. He’s already screwing with the barista without even laying a finger on him. But this time, Neal gets to bring Andy to the begging.

“Three days,” Neal’s voice is a growl, his hands tight on Andy’s shoulders; Andy’s not moving, wouldn’t dare to, but right now Neal’s got to hold on for dear life. “Three days I watch you fawn all over this fucker, stopping by his work, sending all those texts. Don’t even wanna think what you said to him, the dirty fuckin’ promises you made.”

“I didn’t--” Andy begins, not sure if he should be disturbed by his boyfriend’s sudden forcefulness, or turned on. The tightness of his pants makes the decision for him.

The glint of the sun catching on Andy’s iPhone glimmers in the corner of Neal’s eye; he’s _still_ holding onto it, and Neal positively snarls. A quick flash from Andy’s shoulder to his wrist and Neal knocks the phone out of his hand, sending it skittering to the floor. Andy’s about to break the charade, shove Neal back with a bit of venom of his own, if he finds his phone was damaged. Jealous anger was one thing, but that iPhone still had the goddamn _plastic wrap_ on it, it was so new...

But Neal stops him before he can give an explanation. “And for what? Free fuckin’ coffee??” With another flash he knocks the Starbucks cup, empty but for ice cubes, out of Andy’s hand, and it spills onto hardwood. Sixx’ll probably come bounding in to lick up his cold new prize before it melts into the grain.

With a seething breath sucked in between his teeth, Neal leans in, so close to Andy’s ear he can feel him sweat, feel the pulse at Andy’s throat and throbbing through his jeans. “Would you have fucked him for it?” He slides his leg in closer between Andy’s, feeling the heat of a familiar erection against his thigh.

Neal revels in the groan he brings to Andy’s lips; Andy rolls his head back as best he can, Neal doesn’t give him much space against this wall as it is. “Neal...” he ekes out, his eyes closed, his hands aching to touch.

The rough rasp at his ear turns to a soft kiss, Neal’s lips making a slow, hesitant trail down to Andy’s exposed neck. It’s only in his kiss does Neal show any vulnerability, any indication past his rough facade that Andy might have hurt him through this. “I’d have made coffee for you,” he whispers, his own cock twitching just from being so close to Andy. “Y’just needed to ask...”

Unable to resist--even when Neal’s shutting down his tough guy routine and letting Andy see the real person he’s always known--Andy hazards a smirk, his voice dropping low. “You wouldn’t make it like him,” he teases, the lust dripping out of his tone.

They’re the last words Neal lets him speak without demanding it.

The hands at Andy’s shoulders roughly press him into the wall again, the dull pain only a reminder of who is in charge, who is taking control. Where Neal’s lips had just placed tender kisses against Andy’s neck, he now rakes his teeth over the skin, biting down to leave marks, thrilled at the gasp he receives from his boyfriend.

He would show Andy--oh, Neal would prove it to him--that he was his, and his alone.

Soon the startled gasps coming from Andy’s mouth turn into moans, his eyes fluttering closed as he calms into Neal’s touch, letting him overtake him. His hips rise from the plaster to meet with Neal’s, his cock surprisingly hard in his jeans, but Neal growls in protest and pins him back against the wall, their hips flush together. A different method, Andy thinks, as Neal punctuates his power with a scrape of his piercings against Andy’s skin, but the outcome is all the same.

Finally Neal relents on Andy’s throat, leaving the skin raw and abused, a well-earned bruise sure to bloom by morning. Maybe now David will be convinced Neal can handle his own relationships without his meddling; maybe now the barista bitch will think twice before handing over another comp’ed latte to a good-looking caffeine junkie. He attacks Andy’s mouth with his own, muffling the moans he garners when he works Andy’s mouth with tongue and teeth, leaving no space of his unmarked.

He’s starting to feel the strain himself from this physical contact, so charged with power Neal’s nearly overtaken with it. Andy whimpers, trying to find footholds where he can, his tongue battling with Neal’s for possession of his mouth, his fingers digging into the wall behind him, aching to grip Neal’s flesh. His hips make another attempt at control and this time Neal lets him, finding more pleasure himself when Andy grinds their hips together, the heat of their cocks emanating through their pants.

Breathless, Neal breaks their kiss to take in deep gulps of air, feeling the rise and fall of Andy’s chest as he does the same. But soon Andy’s neck is straining again, searching for Neal’s lips, begging for another taste. “Neal...” he whispers again, his eyes dark and lustful, his conquered lips parted and red, pants of hot breath rushing into Neal’s face. Neal thinks Andy’s gorgeous anytime--except for when the bastard gets a cold and then he looks like hell warmed over--but especially like this, so blindingly horny and needy he can barely see. Neal lets his guard down for a second--just a second--to take in the sight before him, his boyfriend waiting for him, yearning for his touch, expecting the next move.

But a second is all Andy needs: sensing the hold Neal has on his shoulders loosening, he takes the opportunity to pull his arms from the wall, wrapping them around Neal’s frame, desperate to touch what he could not before. His hands roam along Neal’s back, swooping down over his ass, pulling their bodies closer together; one curious hand travels along Neal’s waistline and makes short work of the clasp of his jeans. On instinct alone he snakes the hand into newly uncovered territory, sandwiching it between their bodies as he reaches into Neal’s boxers, teasing the head of his cock.

When Andy senses the tension in Neal’s body, though, he knows he’s taken too much control. Neal growls again, a rumbling deep in his throat that has nothing and everything to do with lust; he pushes hard against Andy’s shoulders and Andy releases him, his hands against the plaster once more.

“Not done with you yet,” Neal warns; his eyes are narrowed and trained on Andy’s, dangerously dark, and while Andy dares to push him even further he won’t, a thrill running through him just at the thought of what Neal might do.

It only takes a moment before he knows. Neal pushes off, their physical contact broken, and Andy groans instinctively from the loss, but in the next second Neal pulls him by the shirt collar, spins him around until he’s facing the wall, his back to Neal; indefensible, vulnerable. Andy tries to hold back a very different groan when he’s against the wall again, cheek pressed into the plaster, Neal not giving him even an inch of free movement. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes he shouldn’t be as turned on by this show of force, but as he feels his erection strain in his pants, sandwiched against the wall with Neal’s own hips giving him no leeway, Andy understands that he can even surprise himself.

He feels the familiar, cool metal piercings in Neal’s bottom lip rake along the back of his neck, long, languorous kisses that are only meant to be a precursor to Neal’s wilder nature. Andy’s not left disappointed: with a passionate cry he feels teeth follow the path of Neal’s lips, running from his neck down to the shoulder, the collar of his t-shirt the only barrier between Neal’s bite and his flesh. Andy wants to take it off, break that one last barrier down, but after his last indiscretion landed him here, he doesn’t know if it’s worth pissing Neal off again. Or perhaps it is.

Neal’s kisses are just a distraction, fodder for what’s coming next. Arching into his lips, Andy hadn’t even noticed Neal’s hands traveling southward, hungrily palming his hips before moving to the fly on Andy’s jeans. Andy’s pants are by his knees before he can breathe, the cool house air breezing through his thin boxers; and soon those are as good as gone, too, Neal restraining himself just enough so he doesn’t rip the offending clothing from Andy’s body.

Finally released from its tight fabric prison, Andy’s cock stands tall, so surprisingly hard it’s curving up towards his belly, leaving a trail of precome pooling at the tip in his dark pubic hair. He throws his head back in a moan, eyes closed, teeth digging into his lip, until he feels a tattooed hand at the nape of his neck, tugging at his errant strands of hair. Fuck, Andy thinks, Neal hasn’t done that in so long, and he suddenly regrets ever shedding his longer locks, no matter how unmanageable they became. He’s able to think of nothing more when Neal tugs his head to the side, turning it to see his boyfriend only from the corner of one eye, and kisses him, his mouth commanding, claiming Andy’s once again.

Andy can do little else but groan into Neal’s mouth, willing himself over, letting himself be taken. Neal pulls down his own jeans and boxers with his free hand, pressing his now naked hips into Andy, his hard cock sliding in between Andy’s cleft like finding its way home. Moving fast underneath Andy’s t-shirt, Neal’s hand comes back between his boyfriend and the wall, following the path of hairs from his chest down to his cock, taking it into his grasp.

The heat of Neal’s body...his hands all over him...and Andy just standing there, subject to it all, unable to move any more than the short, shallow thrusts he’s making into Neal’s fist, because Neal won’t let him move. Fuck, if all he had to do to get Neal riled up like this was flirt with a bespectacled Starbucks barista, Andy’s gonna hit every coffee joint from here to Escondido.

Neal’s the one to break the kiss again, giving Andy a small mental victory when he pulls back breathless, overwhelmed just from the feel of Andy’s dick in his grasp. But in a moment that weakness is gone, and so is his hand roughly stroking Andy: he drags it up against Andy’s flesh, nails digging into his flanks, careful to give the head one last parting squeeze. He watches Andy whimper through thickly-lidded eyes; _now_ who’s the one breathless.

Reaching up, the hand finds its destination, Neal tracing his fingers along Andy’s lips. “Take it,” he whispers, eyes intent on Andy’s face, and Andy obliges, only _now_ deciding to be obedient.

He draws Neal’s tattooed fingers in hungrily, tasting himself on Neal’s skin, swirling his tongue expertly around the digits. Eyes closed, focused on sucking Neal’s fingers, slicking them for what he knew was to come, Andy felt more desire pool up in him than before, when that hand was on his cock, stroking him. He can hear Neal’s breath coming in heavy pants, struggling to maintain his moans, the hand at the back of Andy’s head slowly gripping and tangling into his hair. Neal’s hips are making short, insistent thrusts against his ass, and he can feel how hard his boyfriend is from the foreplay, can tell how badly he wants this. If he could, Andy would spin right the fuck back around, drop to his knees and suck another part of Neal other than his fingers; but, knowing the power-hungry mood Neal is in, he stays where he’s told.

When his fingers retreat they’re wet, and coated, and perfect, and Neal can’t even fucking believe how good he’s got it that Andy is his. Residual jealousy flares up in him as he brings the fingers down to the cleft of Andy’s ass, quickly finding his entrance and wasting no time. No one else does have it so good; no one else touches Andy like this, holds him in strong arms and gives him this kind of pleasure, passionate and raw. “No one else fucks you like this,” he finds himself whispering into Andy’s ear, and he feels the shudder course through Andy’s body in more places than one. “No one but me.”

Andy stutters out a moan as he feels the fingers press into him, bracing his arms against the plaster and pushing himself onto them, desperate for Neal’s touch. “Oh God,” he rasps, barely hearing Neal spit into his free hand, taking up his own cock and slicking it as best he could. All he’s focused on is the feel of Neal inside him, stretching him, readying him. Fuck, he thinks he’d be used to it by now, sex with Neal old hat...but every time feels like a fresh experience, thrilling and beautiful. Andy wasn’t thinking of ever cheating past some flirtations for free coffee, but he’s sure now he would never think of leaving this.

“Do it,” he says, throwing a look over his shoulder and catching Neal’s eye. The fingers inside him bend, just so; his voice rises up into a moan, a higher tone this time, and Neal almost wants to laugh knowing he’s the one who caused it.

With a glint of challenge in his eye, daring Andy to try anything, Neal removes his fingers and grips Andy’s hip tightly, slipping in a slap on his ass for good measure. Quickly he positions himself, already feeling the heat of Andy’s body, familiar and inviting; like home. Andy isn’t like this with anyone else, but Neal isn’t, either, and that arrangement works fine by him.

Leaning close to Andy’s ear, he says, in a low voice from deep in his gut, “You’re mine,” and thrusts himself inside.

He always thinks he’ll be ready for it, a routine they’ve almost got down nightly now for years, but Andy never is: that quick rush of heat and pressure racing up his spine, the knowledge that Neal is _inside_ him, uniting them, gets him every time. He moans, unrestricted, as he feels Neal slowly guide himself all the way to the hilt, then stay there, still, letting both their bodies acclimate to the feeling.

It’s good--holy _shit_ , is it good, the typical dull burn in Andy’s gut already giving way to thick waves of pleasure--but he already wants more. He begins thrusting back against Neal’s cock, inviting Neal to go deeper, fuck him proper. “Move...” he entreats, searching for that coveted friction between them he knows and loves.

But in the midst of passion he forgets who is in charge: Neal grips the flesh at Andy’s hip a little too tight for comfort, leans into him heavily so that Andy’s chest is flush against the wall. “I’ll move when I wanna move.” His voice is thick and wet in Andy’s ear; Andy’s already breathing hotly but this takes him even further, shuddering with pleasure as Neal’s stillness unnerves him.

Neal waits a few seconds longer than he’d care to, just to screw with Andy, give him a taste of playful manipulation. It turns him on in and of itself that Andy’s nearly begging for this, the small, needy pulses of his body against Neal that he’s not even consciously making, because Neal told him to be still. Neal is the one to begin this time, unsheathing himself nearly entirely before thrusting back in, gasping as the walls of Andy’s body clench around his cock, causing it to throb.

It’s even more intense for Andy: he lets out a shout of pleasure every time Neal’s hips snap forward into him, the pace so rough and rigorous he can do nothing but take it, and let it ride. This is rare for them, giving one man total control over the other, how he moves, how he speaks, even how he’ll fuck. But Andy finds it arousing in ways he didn’t think possible; with a groan he urges his hips forward, chancing a hand to slip down and wrap around his cock, hard and neglected.

Another growl from his lover, and Neal nips at the lobe of Andy’s ear, teasing out a yelp. “ _Mine,_ ” he says again, the passion bringing Neal down to his base, his mind only able to produce single-syllable commands and enthusiastic grunts. He swats Andy’s hand away from his dick and replaces it with his own, biting down on his lip at how hard Andy feels in his grip, the head nearly aching with his pulse. He hears another whimper escape Andy’s lips but it’s higher, breathier, his boyfriend barely able to keep himself together.

That whimper breaks something in Neal, that he feels swell in him from his chest down to the tell-tale tightness in his balls. This power play is entertaining enough, and for fuck’s sake it was necessary, but Neal’s had enough. He doesn’t want Andy begging anymore; he just wants him. But before he gets that coiling in his gut he knows all too much about, he decides with a snarl to take one last stab at dominance.

“Tell me you’re mine.” Wrapping his free arm around Andy’s waist, Neal pulls them closer together, not an inch of air between their bodies, holding himself deeply sheathed inside him. He picks up the pace, stroking Andy’s cock with a determined, expert hand, squeezing at the head and feeling every tremor.

“Neal,” Andy cries out, his eyes tightly shut, his body tense everywhere. He wants to thrust forward into Neal’s waiting hand, wants to push back with the rhythm of Neal’s pulses and take his cock in deeper, but he can’t move anywhere, too crowded up against the wall, and he thinks he’s going to die if he doesn’t get some release. “So close...”

There’s lips along Andy’s shoulder again, Neal providing passionate kisses and bites to decorate the skin. “Say it,” he commands, pumping his hips into Andy’s, fuck tenderness. “Want to hear you.”

Throwing his head back, Andy exposes his neck to Neal, a canvas for his bites’ bruises that he’ll never tire of. He complies easily, his voice a needy whine between pants, and Neal muses that the best way to get Andy to do what he wants is to fuck him against a wall. He’ll remember that the next time the garbage needs to be taken out. “I’m yours,” he says, his brow furrowed in concentration, focusing on Neal’s hand, his cock, every _part_ of him. “Always...no one else, not--oh, fuck, Neal--”

His voice breaks off into a shout, his body tight and stiff as he reaches his climax, cock spilling onto Neal’s colorful knuckles. It’s wave after wave of pleasure and he thinks he’s going to die from it, or worse, collapse under his own weight and impale himself on Neal’s dick. Andy trembles all over as he’s milked, Neal’s hand never ceasing to stroke him, his thrusts rough and desperate until Andy feels Neal go stiff as well, cock jerking inside him, releasing its load.

Immediately the rough facade is gone: Neal’s grip slackens, easing Andy from the wall. The mouth upon his neck gentles into a lazy, murmuring kiss, soft as a sigh against tortured flesh. “Love you,” Neal whispers, bare and open, and that makes Andy shudder more than the sex.

“I know.” His mouth widens into a sincere smile as he looks behind him, Neal’s head resting on Andy’s shoulder, lashes nearly tickling his skin, his eyes closed in post-coital calm. Andy takes Neal’s hand, sticky from his own seed but he doesn’t give a damn, and squeezes it in his own, catching Neal’s attention. The blond lashes flutter as his eyes open, a clear, crisp blue Andy never ceases to get lost in. His smile brightens. “Love you, too.”

Though his hold on Andy has loosened Neal still keeps them in a close embrace, even after his spent cock grows soft and gravity slips him from inside Andy. They kiss, Andy craning his neck to reach Neal’s lips, a soft brush against one another so starkly different from their assault only minutes before. When their lips part, the heavy feeling of satisfaction easing into their bones, Neal stubbornly refuses to go far and touches his forehead to Andy’s, now content just to listen to him breathe.

But the soft, silent sound of Andy breathing is interrupted by a familiar electronic chirping, somewhat dampened by Andy’s iPhone being thrown underneath the couch, by _someone_. They both laugh, a deep rumble from inside that they’ve both been waiting to get out.

“Guess I’m not going to that Starbucks ever again, am I,” Andy wagered, stealing a quick peck from Neal’s grinning lips.

He feels the forehead against his shake with more laughter, and then move from side to side in a definitive answer. “Nope.”


End file.
